Elevator Pitch
by roane
Summary: "Sergeant Donovan, are you claustrophobic?" Sherlock's voice had that low thrum of interest, as if he'd just discovered a new and fascinating toy. Written for sherlockbbc@LJ's Commfest.


The building was tall, posh, and likely harboured a kidnapper.

"According to our records, Susan Stratford has her offices on the 18th floor," said Lestrade, as they walked into the towering building. Sherlock and John followed, accompanied by Sergeant Donovan and several police officers, uniformed and plainclothes. John looked up at the steel and glass atrium soaring overhead as he followed Sherlock to the lift.

"Where do you think you're going?" said Lestrade.

"To talk to Susan Stratford," said Sherlock.

"I shouldn't have even let you come along. You are absolutely not going to help me interview a potential suspect."

Sherlock turned to face Lestrade and John sighed. He'd seen this argument many times, and he hadn't seen Detective Inspector Lestrade win once. He caught Sally Donovan's eye and gave a small shrug and a smile. She sniffed and looked away.

"Furthermore," Sherlock was saying, "you wouldn't even have thought to talk to her at all if it wasn't for me. You don't know what you're looking for here, Inspector. I do."

"Well if you would just tell _me_—"

"You wouldn't know it if you saw it. Tell me, Lestrade, how did I know that forger in Whitehall was the one you wanted? Could you have spotted it?"

Lestrade rubbed at his forehead in a gesture John had long come to recognize meant defeat. "Yes, all right," he said.

That was all it took for Sherlock to make a dash for the bank of lifts along one wall. John hurried to keep up as Lestrade was giving instructions to the rest of the team. "You three, stay here and make sure she doesn't duck out..."

Sherlock stepped into an open lift with John hard on his heels. Just before the doors slid closed, Sally Donovan joined them. She gave them a tight smile. "You're not going to start anything until the Inspector joins us. Just so we're clear."

"Sergeant Donovan, I wouldn't dream of doing anything untoward," Sherlock said. John braced himself. That sticky-sweet tone in Sherlock's voice never boded well for anyone.

She laughed. "Freak, your definition of 'untoward' isn't like the rest of the world's. So you're sticking with me."

Sherlock opened his mouth to say something else, when the lift gave a lurch, then stopped moving. John gave a worried look at the display over the door. They were nowhere near the 18th floor, and there was no 'ding' to suggest they'd stopped at a floor. In fact, all of the numbers on the panel overhead were dark.

"I think we're caught between floors," he said, perhaps unnecessarily.

"Lovely," Donovan muttered. She pushed the button for the 18th floor again, even though it was still lit.

"That's not going to make the lift come unstuck," Sherlock said. "Think, Sergeant Donovan, are you really one of those people who thinks repeatedly pushing the button makes the car come faster?"

"All right," John said. "Just wait a tick. We'll move again in just a moment. Probably just a glitch."

The three of the stood in customary lift formation: in separate corners, not looking at each other. And they waited.

And waited.

And waited.

After perhaps five minutes had passed, Donovan said, "I think we're definitely stuck," she said. There was a red button on the panel for emergencies, so she pushed it. John could hear an alarm going off in the distance. Sherlock was fidgeting, twitching at his cuffs.

"We're going to miss everything," he said.

John checked his mobile. He still had a signal, but not much of one. He dialled Lestrade. The first time it went to voice mail.

"Who are you phoning, John?"

"Lestrade, of course. Although I expect by now we've been missed."

He redialled, and this time got a gruff, "Where the bloody hell are you? Is Sally with you?"

"We're stuck in the lift," John said. "And yes, she is."

"Damn it," Lestrade said. "I'll send someone to look after it, but we're about to close in on Stratford. It may be a bit. Hang on."

"We don't have much choice," John said drily. He rang off, then told Sherlock, "He's sending someone, but it might be a bit."

"What are we supposed to do in the meantime?" demanded Donovan.

John shrugged. "Wait. I don't suppose anyone has a deck of cards handy?"

"We can't just wait," Donovan said. "We have to try to get out of here."

"Sure, we could try," John said, "but where's the point? It'll be sorted soon."

"We can't just sit here," she said.

"Why not?" asked John.

"Because... because we can't. Tell him, Sherlock. We're going to miss the questioning."

Sherlock was studying Donovan closely. "You're not worried about the questioning though, are you, Sergeant Donovan?"

"What? Shut it. Don't start that here." Donovan was fidgety, tugging at the edge of her jacket.

"Sergeant Donovan, are you claustrophobic?" Sherlock's voice had that low thrum of interest, as if he'd just discovered a new and fascinating toy.

"No. I'm not," she said. "I just don't fancy spending half an hour trapped in here with the two of you, all right?"

John studied Donovan more closely. He'd seen panic attacks before, of course. If this was one, it was highly restrained. "It's all right," he said.

"I know it's bloody all right," Donovan snapped. She took a deep breath. "I would just like to be out of here, that's all. Maybe we could pry the doors open."

"Right," John said, eyeing the doors. "I guess it's worth a shot, anyway." He stuck his fingers experimentally into the crack between the closed doors. There was almost no give.

"Oh, budge over," Donovan said, and took the side opposite of John. "You pull that side, and I'll pull this one."

"This is a truly spectacular waste of time," Sherlock said. "They're not going to open. You've been watching too many movies."

"Oh, and I suppose," John grunted with the force he was exerting on the door, "you've made a study in lift doors, then?"

"No, but I know the dangers inherent in opening the doors between floors."

John sighed and stopped pulling. "Fine, what do you suggest we do then?"

"We wait. That shouldn't be a problem for anyone, unless someone's feeling a little anxious," Sherlock said.

"Oh, sod off," Donovan said. She, too, gave up trying to open the doors and leaned back against the wall. John could see the slight tremor in her shoulders, and her breathing was a little too fast.

"Sally? I need you to breathe with me for a minute." John started breathing in deep, even breaths. The use of her first name caught her attention, as John thought it might. She gave him a dubious look, but started matching him breath for breath at the slower, deeper pace.

"This is ridiculous," Sherlock said again.

John didn't stop his breaths, but gave Sherlock a stern look. "Keep breathing just like that, Sally," John said. "Do you want to sit down?" She shook her head, and kept breathing. "All right," he said. "If you start to feel light-headed, I'm right here."

As she kept breathing, John said, "Sherlock, do you remember Chris Melas?"

Sherlock gave him an absolutely withering look. "I should never have let you post that case on your blog."

"It was brilliant though!" He turned to Donovan. "Did you read that one? About the comic books?"

She shook her head, breathing steadily.

"Oh, you should, when we get out of here. Clever kid, turns out he was being used by a comics company for advertisements, but they nearly got him sectioned instead. So, to bring it all out into the open, we had to—Sherlock and I—we had to dress up as ninjas: black face masks, the whole thing." John thought perhaps Sherlock might murder him after they got out of here, but that was worth it if it distracted Sally.

"You're joking," she said, her voice sounding more normal.

"Not a bit," John said, grinning at the memory. "So there we were, in a dark alley somewhere, pretending to fight off Melas—who was wearing a superhero costume, mind you—while a lot of folks watched. It was quite possibly the most ludicrous thing I have ever done." He glanced at Sherlock wryly. "And I invaded Afghanistan." That got a chuckle out of Sherlock, as John had expected, but more importantly, it got a smile from Donovan.

"Why do you put up with him?" she asked John.

"Eh, he's a daft bugger all right, but we get on well. He'd fall apart if I wasn't around, you know," John said, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial stage whisper.

"John, don't be an idiot," Sherlock said. "It's obvious that you're the one who would fall apart without me."

"Ha," said John. "I was doing just fine, thank you very much."

"Fine," snorted Sherlock. "If you want to call that fine—"

"Boys," Donovan said. "If you could wait and have your domestic once we're out of here, I'd appreciate it. I'd really hate to have to murder you both." She smiled though, and John could see that some of the tension had left her shoulders.

"Well, I'm settling in," John said, and leaned against the wall to sit down on the floor. After a moment, Donovan joined him. "All right, Sally?" John asked.

"All right," Sally said, and this time it sounded like she was telling the truth.

Sherlock sat down against the far wall and said, "I knew you were claustrophobic. I've known it for months, really."

"You have not," Donovan said.

"That chase that led us through the sewers," Sherlock said. "I saw clearly then that you were uncomfortable in tight spaces."

"I'm uncomfortable in tight spaces with _you_," she said.

The bickering continued, and by the time the lift moved again (going down) John was relieved—he was about to strangle Sherlock on Donovan's behalf.

"God, get me away from this freak," Donovan said, pushing out of the lift first.

Later, as John and Sherlock were headed back to the flat, Sherlock said, "Well done, calming Donovan down back there."

"Which is more than I can say for you," John retorted.

"I thought perhaps if she were irritated at me, it might distract her," Sherlock said.

"That was on purpose?"

"Well yes. It always is. A bit. Listen, John," Sherlock caught his elbow as they reached the door of 221B, "don't put this case on your blog, all right?"

"But Sherlock, everything you learned—"

"I know, but you'll just get all the details wrong anyway. Knowing you you'll focus on getting trapped in the lift, and no one will want to read that."

The look Sherlock gave him was so significant that John had to smile. "Least of all Sergeant Donovan," he said.

"Oh, when have I ever cared what she thinks?" Sherlock said, and swept past him and up the stairs to the flat.

John smiled, and followed after him.


End file.
